On Erin Morgenstern’s “The Night Circus”

I was in my fifth-floor hotel room in Manhattan when I realized I was falling in love with Erin Morgenstern. (I’m still gay, though.) I had been coveting a copy of her first novel, The Night Circus, and had been unsuccessful in securing a galley. (Benefit of reviewing books – you get books way in advance of the general public. Downside? You really want to talk about the book you are reading, but have no one with whom to talk about the book you are reading.) But on this day, the day before the first day of Book Expo America 2010 (attendance — another benefit of reviewing books, maybe one of the best benefits of reviewing books), Morgenstern’s editor at Random House (Doubleday, a fine imprint of Random House, and no, not just saying it because I have a book I’d like to sell) was coming out of her skin (OK, I hate metaphors and similes, but I really think she was coming out of her skin; she was that excited) while talking about The Night Circus.

Book sold all over the world, in languages I’ve never even heard of. Film rights sold to the same company that made the Twilight movies (emphasis hers, definitely hers). She read it in the cafeteria of the building in which she worked, and the book rocked her world so much that she had to have it (emphasis hers).

Magic in the air? Maybe. Confetti and trapeze artists and man-eating lions? May as well have been.

Erin (I can call her Erin, because I love her and because she and I have become friendly — not like that, my gutter-minded readers) was in the room listening to her editor talk about the book, though I didn’t know Erin was in the room listening to her editor talk about the book, and after, when I had a copy of The Night Circus, I read about Erin and realized that she lived in Massachusetts, in the same town where I had lived for two years upon moving to Massachusetts, and that she looked like a girl with whom I would have smoked cigarettes (cloves, definitely cloves) under the bleachers in high school, and like the girl who with whom I would have been on the phone on prom tonight, bitching about the falseness of prom, but secretly wishing we were there, and like the girl with whom I would have gone to carnivals and circuses and wandered through mirrored rooms. We would have laughed at our too-big, and too-small, and just too-too bodies, and we would have said how much we hate our reflections, though I think she would have hated her reflection less than I would have hated my reflection.

Erin lived (lives, still, for now; she keeps threatening to escape to the Pacific Northwest, which is where I lived for the three years preceding my move to Massachusetts – kismet, our friendship, I’m telling you) in Massachusetts and believes everything she writes is a fairy tale. In my fifth-floor hotel room in Manhattan, I read that she believes everything she writes is a fairy tale and I fell in love, because I think everything I write is a fairy tale.

She got tired of living in Alice’s Wonderland, and decided to build a Wonderland of her own. And I had been living in a Wonderland for a year, and had grown tired of my Wonderland, and had written about my Wonderland, which was no more a onderland than the Wonderland Alice explored. Erin paints (painted? Not sure she has time to paint anymore.) Wonderland-y things and teacups and pigs with wings. (I have not seen her art, though I think I would be all Gollum about it: My Precccciiiiiooooouuuuuusesssss). She’s designed a deck of Tarot cards (all sold out, damn the buyers to hell; no, really, damn them all to hell).

And so on.

Each line on her resume intrigued me (kind of like finding a man who likes comic books, Tori Amos, and holding hands in public, which I have, though he lives in fucking Buffalo, which is the universe’s way of telling me that he is not for me, though maybe he is, and we’ve looked into the train trip, but it is 12 hours, and who wants to travel 24 hours both ways for a date or three and some good sex, because I know it would be good. I digress.) and I knew she would not bore me (I bore easily).

So I did what any man in the onset of a crush would do – I Tweeted her. And in the time I needed to shower before an industry event, she Tweeted back. I said something clever (or that I thought was clever) about being her new BFF, and she replied with something equally clever about how I never call her, and I was smitten.

Erin Morgenstern

Two days later, after standing in a line for more than an hour, I met her met her and she signed my book and I told her who I was (@Avesdad, you should follow me) and she knew who I was and she told her publicist the story of my Tweeting to her, and the publicist took our picture (I had already taken a picture of Erin signing my book). And I Tweeted that picture of Erin signing my book, and said that there was photographic evidence of my meeting Erin Morgenstern, but that this specific picture was not that photographic evidence. A couple of days later, Erin Tweeted the picture of me with her and said, here is that photographic evidence.

Done. I was done.

I’d already read The Night Circus and given a copy (I took two home) to the man I was dating (who also loved it and demanded I bring him home a UK version of the book while I’m in the UK in November; I won’t be doing that, as I’m not dating him any more, but I ordered a UK version of the book for my collection, thank you very much), and I talked about this book, and talked about this book, and read this book a second time, and talked about this book, and this book is still on my nightstand, because I sorely want to read it a third time, and I will read it a third time, but more than likely when I get my UK version, just so I can see it in a second language (you know the Brits and their crazy spellings).

And the book is out tomorrow (September 13), so buy it. I’m not kidding. Go to where you buy your books (brick-and-mortar, e-reader, wherever) and pick up a copy or three and cancel any plans you may have for however long you need to finish a book, because you will not want to move until you have finished the book.)

I continue to Tweet at (to? with?) Erin, and she replies, when she has time, since she is a Wall Street Journal profiled author (with cat), and an item on most best-books-of-the-fall lists, and a busy woman and all that (Comic Con, world tour, New York to sign 2,000 copies of the book for independent bookstores). She also posts a flax golden tale (Erin-speak for magical short story) to her blog (erinmorgenstern.com) each Friday.

Another reason I love her: The Wall Street Journal suggested her book would be the next Harry Potter, to which Erin said, um, no, not so much. There is no next Harry Potter, but thanks very much for referring to me as elfin, as I’ve been told I have fairy energy but have never been called elfin.

She offers everyone “discount dreams and well-worn wonders.” And I want discount dreams and well-worn wonders, so I enter The Night Circus, and I linger in The Night Circus, and I jump the fence when the circus is closed and I hide in tents, and each time the circus moves to its next location, I want to move with it, become part of it, call a tent mine, and see what happens next (which, for Erin, is another stand-alone book, and not a sequel or a prequel to The Night Circus, thank you very much).